It's Not Quite Christmastime Yet, Lucy Baker
by damedarkhat
Summary: Alfendi Layton wants a lot of things: to solve fascinating murders, to keep his father from crowding him with affection, and to spend all the time he can with his beloved Detective Constable. When he has to take a sick day, though, he'll find his patience tested—and maybe even his heart warmed.


It was an excruciatingly hot day in August when Lucy Baker experienced something she'd never experienced before: beating her beloved Prof to work. _Well, ain't that a surprise!_ she thought, glancing around for any signs that Alfendi hadn't just slipped out. When her gaze landed on the still-unplugged electric kettle, though, she knew that he hadn't arrived to brew his first of many cups of Earl Grey.

 _The commissioner must've caught him_ , she decided. _That's just as well. I'll put the kettle on and see if he doesn't come 'round._ During her time at Scotland Yard, Lucy had learned a lot, but the one thing she hadn't expected to learn was the art—no, the _science_ —of "the best cup of Earl Grey you've ever had" from _Potty Prof_ of all people.

In fact, Alfendi himself had been the biggest surprise of all. He'd been a mystery to her, and she did love mysteries. He'd intrigued her almost since her first day in the Mystery Room, but as their time together increased and as she got to know both sides of him, her initial fondness had grown into something, well, different. Every day with Alfendi was an adventure, even if they never left the office, and Lucy had the soul of an adventurer. She denied it vehemently whenever anyone asked her—it wasn't their business anyway—but she knew herself too well not to recognize when she was falling in love.

When the kettle clicked off, Lucy carefully poured the boiling water into each of the three mugs she'd grabbed and fixed Earl Grey for Alfendi, herself, and Florence. If Alfendi hadn't shown up by then, at least Lucy could have a few extra minutes with her friend down at forensics. A few minutes later, she had doctored each mug perfectly and began her short journey down the hall to reach Florence.

"Mornin', Flo!" Lucy called as she entered Florence's office.

"Oh, hello— _achoo_ —Lucy," Florence sniffled. She eyed the three mugs in Lucy's hands. "That's awfully sweet of you, but you didn't need to—"

"Nonsense!" Lucy interrupted cheerfully. "Ain't that what friends are for?"

Florence smiled, almost more to herself than at Lucy. "Yes, I suppose so," she answered, gratefully accepting the proffered mug. After her first sip, she looked back at the two remaining mugs. "Al isn't here, Luce."

Lucy's face fell. "Oh?"

"You just missed the commissioner," Florence continued. "He said Al isn't coming in today. I think he's got a bit of a cold."

Lucy couldn't contain her concern if she tried. "Is he alright?!" she demanded.

Florence shrugged. "I guess so," she answered. "He's just home for the day."

Lucy looked down at her beloved Prof's cup. _Oh, Prof, how on earth did ya end up sick?_ "Has anyone checked on him?" she asked after a moment.

Florence's heart went out to Lucy. _Does Al know how lucky he is?_ she wondered. "Probably," she mused, "but I don't know for sure."

Lucy hesitated. It may have been a slow day in the Mystery Room, but that didn't mean she could just waltz out of Scotland Yard whenever she felt like it. _Still, if Prof's under the weather…_ "I need to talk to the commissioner," Lucy declared. "I'll see you later, Flo."

"Take care, Luce," Florence called after her friend. _Al won't know what hit him._

* * *

Meanwhile, only a Tube stop away, a very irritated and very ill Alfendi was struggling to maintain his adulthood while his father cared for him. _It's only a damn cold,_ Alfendi grumbled to himself. _If Flora hadn't insisted on calling me yesterday, none of them would know I'm sick, and I'd_ finally _have some peace and quiet_.

That wasn't looking like an option, though. He supposed he should've been grateful that the only visitor to his flat was Hershel, but any gratitude went out the window when his father started making up obscurely historical nicknames for _Alfendi's_ cat while tending to his son. Hershel was running through a list of the Romantic poets before Alfendi finally lost his temper.

"For the last time, Dad," Alfendi groaned, "I don't need your fussing, and neither does Mia!"

But Hershel Layton wasn't one to be discouraged by his crimson-haired son's moods. "Now, Alfendi," he admonished gently, "a gentleman knows when to accept help."

"Well, good thing I'm not a gentleman," Alfendi bit back.

 _We both know that's not quite true, though, don't we?_ Hershel thought to himself. Alfendi was very different from Hershel in many ways, but the old professor couldn't be prouder of both sides of his son, even if he did worry about Alfendi constantly. "Your sisters were awfully sad you couldn't join us for tea last night," he continued. "They even sent you some soup."

"I don't want any of Flora's damn soup," Alfendi muttered, more touched than he cared to let on.

"Flora's cooking has improved considerably, Alfendi," Hershel commented, recalling an all-too-distant memory of a nine-year-old Alfendi retching up a horrified Flora's consommé, "and, anyway, Katrielle is responsible for your nourishment today."

"Oh," was all Alfendi said. "I guess that's alright then."

Hershel kept his warm chuckle to himself. "In that case, I'll leave you with the soup," he said. "Will that satisfy you?"

 _I'm more concerned about satisfying_ you _,_ Alfendi thought. He did love his father, but the blasted man was so relentlessly kind and caring that sometimes Alfendi couldn't help feeling exasperated. "Yes," he stated simply. "Thank Kat for me."

"Certainly, my boy," Hershel said affectionately. He ensured for about the fifth time within the hour that his headstrong son had whatever comforts he could desire before leaving, but not before Hershel secured Alfendi's word that the younger Layton would call upon the older if the occasion should so require. When Hershel finally left, though, he was surprised to find a sunny young woman bounding up the stairs to Alfendi's flat.

Fortunately, Lucy stopped herself from colliding with the kind-looking gentleman at the top of the stairs. "Oh, I'm right sorry, sir!" she exclaimed.

"No need, my dear," Hershel gently laughed, tipping his hat to her. "May I be of some assistance to you?"

Lucy studied him for moment. "You're Professor Hershel Layton, aren't you?" she then asked, her voice hopeful.

"Guilty as charged," the professor chuckled, bowing graciously to his new acquaintance. "You must be the Lucy Baker my son talks of so often."

 _Prof talks about me? To his father?! And often at that!_ Lucy tried to maintain her composure as she answered with a quick curtsy of her own, "Aye, sir! Detective Constable Lucy Baker, at your service!"

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Detective Constable Baker," Hershel said.

"Likewise!" Lucy chirped. "I've read all about your adventures!"

Hershel smiled. "Have you come to check on Alfendi, my dear?"

"Aye!" Lucy replied. "We've got nowt to do today, and I was right worried about the Prof…"

"'The Prof'?" Hershel replied, bemused.

Lucy laughed. "Oh, aye, that's a bit confusing, ain't it? That's what I call him."

"He never told me that," Hershel said, a quietly pleased smile spreading across his face. "Well, I'd best leave you to it. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you." With that, he once again tipped his hat to her and bade her farewell.

 _The Prof's dad's a proper gentleman_ , Lucy thought. _It's a bit odd to think of Potty as the original Prof when his dad's so genteel. Stranger things and all that, I guess._ She finally reached Alfendi's door and knocked brightly. She heard what she thought was grumbling on the other side of the door before it opened to reveal a pajama-clad and _very_ potty Prof, hair in his eyes and Mia on his shoulder.

"Lucy," he stated, surprised. His tense frame relaxed a bit.

"I were wondering if you'd be Potty or Placid," she couldn't help giggling. "Looks like I guessed right."

"What are you doing here?" Alfendi asked, not unkindly.

Lucy beamed up at him. "I heard you were sick, so I came to check on you!"

"I've already been taken care of," Alfendi sighed, rolling his eyes at his now-absent father. "But I'd welcome the company," he added to himself as he stepped aside to let Lucy in.

"What's that, Prof?" Lucy asked.

Blood rushed to his face. "N–nothing, Baker," he nearly yelped, startling poor little Mia.

"Oh, gi' over, Prof," she giggled, lifting Mia from his shoulder and stroking the kitten's soft fur. "It's just me."

 _There is nothing "just" about you, Lucy._ "Unless you have a particularly thrilling case to offer me," he said instead, "I'm afraid I won't be very pleasant company."

She threw him a sidelong glance and— _was that a smirk?_ "Same old, same old, then," she teased.

Alfendi's cheeks were definitely on fire, and it wasn't just the low-grade fever he was running. "Are you sure?" he challenged. "I get even more restless when I'm sick."

"When have I ever not been sure of you, Prof?" Lucy replied.

 _Definitely not just the fever._ "Crap telly it is, then?" he offered, gesturing to the sofa.

"Only if I can have a bowl of that," she answered, pointing the bowl of Katrielle's soup.

"By all means," Alfendi said and dished out some for Lucy, despite her protestations that she ought to serve herself. He encouraged her to pick a program instead, so she set Mia down and busied herself with finding something to watch.

"How about this one, Prof?" Lucy asked as Alfendi returned with another steaming bowl of soup. She held a copy of _It's a Wonderful Life_ in her hands.

"Lucy," Alfendi stated shortly, "it's not Christmas."

To his annoyance—or maybe amusement—she just laughed. "Every day is Christmas if ya just try hard enough."

And, if he were completely honest with himself, Alfendi couldn't bring either side of himself to argue with her. Lucy was the light of his life, as unlikely as it seemed. It was her conviction and her persistence that had exonerated him, and it was her kind heart and her curious mind that drew him—both sides of him—to her. He didn't care to recall the number of times he'd wondered just how soft those lips of hers were, or just how fond of him she might be…

 _No, I can't think about Lucy like this_ , he scolded himself while Lucy stuck the disc in the player. _It isn't fair. She's a promising young detective constable, and here I am, wanting to keep her by my side forever._ No part of Alfendi—potty _or_ placid—could stomach the idea of holding Lucy back from achieving her dreams, even if there was no way her dreams included staying with him.

 _But she's here now._

 _That has to count for something._

"A sick day with the terrifying detective inspector of the Mystery Room, and you're all in?" Alfendi asked, trying to mask the desire in his voice.

"Maybe," Lucy answered mischievously. "If I meet a terrifying detective inspector, I'll let you know."

Alfendi locked eyes with her, taken aback despite himself. "You shouldn't tease me, Baker," he said even lower and more gravelly than usual. He'd meant to sound lighthearted—well, as lighthearted as his more restless personality would allow—but his voice was dangerously close to betraying his futile desires.

Lucy could feel something in the air between them—something she couldn't identify that caused her pulse to flutter and her cheeks to redden ever-so-slightly. _Terrifying in a different way_ , she mused, _and not a bad one at that._ "Oh, Prof," Lucy said as she picked up her soup bowl, sat down, and leaned her head on Alfendi's shoulder, "where'd be the fun in that?"

For a moment, Alfendi couldn't reply, too distracted by the silkiness of her strawberry hair as it brushed against his cheek. The film began to play, but all Alfendi could hear was Lucy's quietly contented breathing. Soon, the often irascible inspector relaxed, satisfied at least for the time being with the woman he loved by his side. "My dear Lucy," he finally replied, "I have no doubt that you'll find it wherever you go."


End file.
